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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100330">The Five Times Eve And Villanelle Resisted A Classic Trope (And The One Time They Didn't)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spayne/pseuds/Spayne'>Spayne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>6 weeks of tropes as a gift, F/F, Fluff, UST, a smidgen of angst, depends if I feel brave enough, maybe resolved st</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 04:22:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,432</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spayne/pseuds/Spayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Eve and Villanelle try to be responsible and stay away from each other but fate has other ideas.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>677</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Trapped Together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolserietv/gifts">coolserietv</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a gift for Coolserietv whose dedication to classic tropes really knows no limit. </p><p>Expect oh in italics. Expect all the cheesy classics. Expect only the loosest interpretation of the word plot.</p><p>And after all that, thank or blame her depending on your preference.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was tolerable until she needed to scratch her foot.</p><p> </p><p>Up until then you were…chill. It was just a woman pressed against you, nothing new there. Nothing to get worked up over. Just a woman. It wasn’t a big deal. You’ve had more of them than you can be bothered to remember. You are a grown up with a very sophisticated sexual palate so it’s going to take more than being close to a fully clothed woman to get some sort of reaction from you.</p><p> </p><p>But then she’d needed to scratch her foot and that is why you are now in this position.</p><p> </p><p>You hate feet.</p><p> </p><p>Feet are now by far your most hated thing.</p><p> </p><p>They are ugly and stupid and now they are the reason that her face is pressed into your tits. Feet are the reason that if she craned her neck slightly her nose would brush against what is now definitely a hard pebbled nipple, and she craned her neck even further it would be her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>You can’t help the way your body tenses at the thought and, even more mortifyingly, you can’t help the hushed intake of breath, so presumably she also can’t help the snap of her neck back into the roof of the trunk once she realises.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck! Ow!”</p><p> </p><p>You cover her mouth with your hand to keep her quiet and her head flops back down onto your chest, and it definitely is your chest rather than your tits. Chest is much easier to deal with. Chest it is.</p><p> </p><p>When you are satisfied that she isn’t going to make any more noise you move your hand away from her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you ok?” You ask, whispering again.</p><p> </p><p>“No, fuck, is it bleeding?”</p><p> </p><p>You cant help the huff of laughter.</p><p> </p><p>“You hit the fabric covered bit from about four inches away, it’s not going to bleed.”</p><p> </p><p>She stiffens. “Don’t be an asshole, it hurts.”</p><p> </p><p>Your instinct is to tease, to gather her closer, press kisses to the crown of her hair and coo ‘poor baby’ in her ear. She’d hate it and shove you a bit. Something nice like that anyway, but of course you do none of those things.</p><p> </p><p>Theres an awkward silence again. It’s the sort of silence that exists a lot these days. The sort of silence that comes when you run into each other in the canteen at the office and you offer to pay for her lunch. Or after someone says something rude about all your excellent spy credentials and she snaps at them unprompted. The sort of silence that you don’t know how to fill.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” You try.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think they are still out there?” She whispers ignoring your apology completely.</p><p> </p><p>“No, probably not.”</p><p> </p><p>There hasn’t been much noise since they clattered out into the car park searching for you both. There was some shouting and some banging on nearby cars but nothing for an hour or so now probably.</p><p> </p><p>Her body is still still above you, or maybe next to you, she’s almost entirely wrapped around you so it’s a bit of both anyway.<span class="Apple-converted-space">  The trunk of this car is so small that really there’s hardly enough room to call it one way or another, and the less time you spend considering who’s on top the better. </span>She’s so tense and rigid, trying so hard to keep her body weight off you as best she can. Maybe she’s frightened? People don’t like small spaces sometimes so maybe thats the problem.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you claustrophobic?” You ask, the word sits awkwardly in your mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“No.” She says it a bit indignantly.</p><p> </p><p>Ah, ok. she’s embarrassed. That makes sense. Ok.</p><p> </p><p>“No, obviously. My mistake.”</p><p> </p><p>“Im not.” She says it firmly.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I know, I was way off base. You seem very relaxed.” People never give you enough credit for your sensitivity.</p><p> </p><p>She shifts her head away from where it rested against your—chest, because it is definitely just your chest, its enough so that you can just about make out her features.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be a dick, I’m not scared.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then why are you so tense?”</p><p> </p><p>She makes a noise of intense frustration and snaps at you; “Probably because I’ve spent the last hour with your tits in my face, and your legs— everywhere, and god I cant smell anything except your hair and—“ She stops suddenly.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Its the best response you can come up with.</p><p> </p><p>The silence is back. Objectively speaking you know, or at least you knew that she wanted you, so it’s stands to reason that being pressed against you would have much the same effect on her that it does on you. But there’s knowing and there’s knowing, so regardless of all that logic you are entirely unprepared to deal with the reality of it.</p><p> </p><p>“Plus it’s hot. I— I get grumpy when I’m hot.” She says.</p><p> </p><p>You feel her shake her head. “Or thats what I’ve been told.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ok” Another clever response from you.</p><p> </p><p>“And—“ She pauses. “my shoulder— it aches a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>Your stomach sinks because this is how it always goes whenever you feel an opportunity open up in front of you. Every time it feels like some sort of forward progress is being made, no matter what, one of you will find a way to let Rome open up like a chasm between you.</p><p> </p><p>She shifts away again and so do you, but it’s hopeless because the trunk is so small and there is no way to move away from each other particularly with Rome wedged in between you.</p><p> </p><p>How are you meant to go about taking that sort of thing back? You doubt she’d accept an apology, even if you knew how to craft the words to make one and your gestures of love never seem to be interpreted in the right way anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Most recently it was your selfless offer of freedom promised on the bridge which became simply an inconvenience to her once she wanted your help with the twelve again.</p><p> </p><p>Raymond was another, however misguided it now feels. You knew she wanted to give in to the darkness and you wanted to give her that. You thought that was what she wanted too. Perhaps it was, but not in the way in which you contrived to give it to her. A nuance that you didn’t see at the time, a shame really, it just became another expression of love lost in translation.</p><p> </p><p>You want to do something though, even if for her it won’t be love, for you it is and maybe that’s reason enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve, I could— “ You don’t know how to phrase this.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you turn round, I could—, I know how to touch— I think I could help”</p><p> </p><p>She stiffens again for a moment and you think that this is another gesture ready to be so casually discarded as if its nothing. Then she starts to turn and as her hair brushes against your face. You watch her lift her hair up above her head to reveal the nape of her neck and you think it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.</p><p> </p><p>Except you don’t see it, not really, but you feel her hair sweep across your face out of the way and her hand accidentally grazes your cheek as it passes. Fuck eyesight, you’ve been watching forever, and these barely there touches are infinitely better.</p><p> </p><p>You rub the flat of your hand along the top of her spine up to where two buttons of her blouse sit.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I?” You ask.</p><p> </p><p>You feel her nod so you slip the buttons open, and try hard not to imagine a different context as you gently pull the fabric away from her shoulder. You can’t see anything in the darkness but when your hand first flattens against her skin you swear you see her shoulder sag, you allow yourself an indulgent moment to believe that maybe, possibly, she feels it too. The lust, yes obviously, but maybe also some of everything else that’s sits behind it.</p><p> </p><p>Your heart hammers in your chest and you force your fingers to remain slow. You start at the join of her neck and shoulders and press your fingers into the knots.</p><p> </p><p>She’s quiet apart from the occasional catch of breath, each one thrums between your legs and you hope she doesn’t notice your occasional restless shifting behind her.</p><p> </p><p>Your thumb presses into her skin a little harder and you hear a completely undignified little grunt before she presses back into you. You both freeze and the sound of slightly too fast breathing fills the too warm air between you</p><p> </p><p>It’s too much suddenly and you have to fill the silence. It doesn’t matter with what, just anything to stop your eager hands from pressing your luck.</p><p> </p><p>“Your hair smells very nice.”</p><p> </p><p>Fuck. Well that was smooth.</p><p> </p><p>There’s silence for one long awful moment before she laughs gently.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you sometimes the rudest person I’ve ever known and also the most polite?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs again and you let yourself relax a little.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s Carolyn, no?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no, that’s just a trick of the accent, every other sentiment is dripping in fuck you’s. But sometimes the way you put things is, formal, polite, sincere maybe, I don’t know. But— but it’s nice. Sometimes”</p><p> </p><p>You want to press your lips to the skin on her neck. Her shoulder moves down slightly and for a moment you let yourself believe that maybe she wants it too. You start to lower your mouth, letting your hand drift further across her shoulder blade and she freezes.</p><p> </p><p>It takes you a moment to realise why.</p><p> </p><p>The skin under your fingers has turned rough where everywhere else it is smooth. Here it is, the evidence of your darkness forever pressed into her skin. All the proof you need in order to know that you can’t take it back, that it can not be undone. Your fingers gently press into the thin ropes of flesh and your forehead drops against the nape of her neck.</p><p> </p><p>You will yourself not to cry. It’s her pain that you should be focusing on but you’ve always been selfish and right now the held back tears are for all the possibilities you denied yourself with this childish fit of pique.</p><p> </p><p>You feel her move in front of you, suddenly there’s a hand reaching round and fingers slipping through your hair at the crown of your head. It’s so fucking gentle you almost pull away.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything, just lets her fingers gently stroke your hair as you let your face continue to press into the nape of her neck.</p><p> </p><p>“You can keep going, if you want— it feels nice.” She whispers.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Yes, ok. That’s good.”</p><p> </p><p>You lift your head and start pressing your fingers into the muscles at her shoulder blade again. This time when your touch passes over the damaged skin neither of you acknowledge it and that thought is what causes the tightness to return in your throat and chest.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly she’s turning in front of you and her face is inches from yours. Knees knock and nervous hands try not to reach out for more. You can just about see her eyes at this distance so you watch them flit across your face and you feel her gaze linger on your mouth. The movement has tucked your bent leg in between hers and it takes every ounce of self restraint to stop yourself from pressing into her.</p><p> </p><p>But when you feel her hand on your hip your control snaps and you can’t help it, you press your thigh into her. She inhales sharply and presses back. You think that maybe this will be how you die.</p><p> </p><p>You both breathe into the small space between you but neither of you makes any attempt to chase a kiss.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers flutter on your hip and you wish them down, down under the button on your trousers and beneath the now wet silk of your underwear. But insteadwhen they begin to trace upwards it is not disappointment you feel, because maybe whilst down is what you want, up to the slightly raised scar on your stomach is what you need.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers stroke gently over the scar in the same way yours have a thousand times before and you can’t identify these emotions; love, sure but that and turned on are the least complicated things you feel. What you can’t name is everything else.</p><p> </p><p>“Vil—“</p><p> </p><p>You have to kiss her. You’ve spent so long wanting, but never with this strange back drop of acceptance and forgiveness and hope. So when you feel the trunk shake and hear the sharp thud of whatever they are using to open the lock you have the urge to laugh.</p><p> </p><p>Of course it would be now.</p><p> </p><p>She scrambles away from you, legs untangled and hands pulled back to safety. The trunk opens and the cold of the outside air thumps your face hard. Torches shine in your eyes and you watch arms reach in to help her climb out.</p><p> </p><p>Once she’s out she’s all business again. As if nothing had happened. You sit up and watch her trot off with Carolyn, hushed whispers and new plans. You aren’t surprised, not really, you aren’t even particularly upset. You let yourself flop back into the trunk. This is just what she does, her focus sticks on the distance, on whatever she’s chasing. The closer you get, the blurrier you become to her. Tragic really.</p><p> </p><p>Someone looms over you, the big one with the sweets, he offers you a clammy looking hand. That’s nice, everyone else seems to have forgotten that you exist at all.</p><p> </p><p>“You, er— need a hand?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I’m just going to lay here for a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Ok. Should I stay?” He asks nervously.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. That might be nice. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>He shifts uncomfortably but stays as promised.</p><p> </p><p>You think that you ought to allow yourself a few moments to feel sorry for yourself but laying on your back looking up at the low concrete ceiling you find that you dont feel that usual restless sadness. Because yeah ok, there was maybe the smallest chance that another few minutes might have bought you a kiss, the kiss, and that didn’t happen which is shit. But something did happen here, maybe something more important. Something you didn’t know how to ask for; it felt like a kind of acceptance.</p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was something important. You are sure of it. Yeah, ok she ran off again at the first opportunity but thats her way isn't it? It doesn't mean that this was nothing. It wasn't for you, and for the first time in a long time you don’t think that this was nothing to her either.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The one with the sweets shifts next to you and clears his throat obnoxiously. Naturally you take another moment more to enjoy his obvious discomfort.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He offers the same hand as before.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You ok?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You think of her fingers combing through your hair, then pressed gently into her mark on your skin. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was something important.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Are you ok?</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">”Yeah, I think I am.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Only one bed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">If it wasn’t so funny you’d be a little insulted. You’ve taken so many people to bed now that you don’t bother counting, don’t bother remembering, but you can safely say that you’ve never seen anyone so dejected at the prospect of sharing your bed.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Since all the gentle and mostly innocent touching in the trunk of the car things have been surprisingly ok. You imagined that it would prompt another shift backwards, more avoidance, more silences. So when she sat down to eat lunch with you next the day you were a little surprised, pleased but surprised. So the thick silence in the lift up to your shared hotel room is jarring by comparison.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Do you ever think about what you’d do if the lift got stuck?” You ask her</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She looks at you properly for a moment, possibly for the first time since the receptionist broke the news of the sleeping arrangements.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, actually.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You smile at her. She’s the cutest.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Top hatch?” You ask.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Well I’m not going to attempt rewiring the electrics in that panel.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You grin.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“So, top hatch up and rope climb the cables to the next floor?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“You over estimate my upper body strength, I was thinking more about climbing through the air ducts and dropping down into an office or something.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You nod approvingly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“You’re little, I think I’d get stuck.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She screws up her face indignantly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“I’m 5’5”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Don’t be grumpy, I was talking about your shoulders.” You pause.“I meant it in a nice way”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">And the silence is back. This is the worst.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You open your mouth to say something else but the door pings open and she quickly walks out and down the corridor.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Ok.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She opens the door and stands still for a moment, when you glance past her you see why. The bed is small, really small. Not a single bed, but barely a double. You try to hold in your amusement, you really do, but come on, it’s pretty hilarious. She turns and catches you stifling a smirk, she huffs in impatience and falls back into the facade of extreme professionalism she uses when she feels awkward. You used to find it mildly annoying, all the pretending, but now you know where it comes from its kind of cute.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You let her busy herself setting up her laptop whilst you inspect the coffee machine.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Do you want a coffee?” You ask mildly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She either ignores you or doesn’t hear.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Fine. Whatever.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You go outside and sit in an uncomfortable metal chair on the tiny balcony.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">The coffee is shit but the sunset is pretty. Purple and pink, mottled like a fresh bruise.You poke your head back into the room briefly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Come and sit outside with me for a bit.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She looks up from the open file in her lap. She’s wearing reading glasses. You didn’t know she did, she doesn’t in the office.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“I can’t—“</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“You can read the file out here, you don’t even need to speak to me if you don’t want to. It’s a pretty sky, and I think you’ll like it.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Turning back before she can answer you flop down into the chair again. You’re surprised when she follows you outside, she brings the file but not the glasses. You don’t mention it.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You sip your coffee and say nothing as she opens the file to read next to you. This is nice. After a while she props her sock clad feet up on the glass in front of you both and every so often wiggles her toes. You wonder whether she thinks about moments like this when she thinks about you. You know she feels the attraction, both the physical and the pull of whatever it is that makes her so fascinated with your darker side, but does she ever imagine things like this? You try hard not to let yourself too often, mostly because you can imagine that one day she might give in to all that tension and let you take her to bed, but you can never picture her letting you get close enough to have these moments with any regularity. So on the odd occasion that she does allow you to see this, to know her like this, you soak up every moment.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Do you want to order in?” She asks suddenly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Sure. Ok. What do you want?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Dont say spaghetti. Dont say spaghetti. Dont say spaghetti.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Um— rice?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She gives you a weird look.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Like risotto? Or on its own?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Risotto?” Rice on its own would be weird right?</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She nods and disappears inside.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You breath out a rough sigh. Bullet dodged, literally.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">———————</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">When the food arrives you both sit on the floor to eat it.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You take a bite and remember that you hate risotto. How annoying. Better that than steering the conversation back to Rome though. Whilst you think that what happened a few weeks ago in the trunk went someway to repairing the damage, you still have the whole sharing a bed thing to face tonight and somehow you can’t imagine that being aided by more references to Rome.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She’s ordered ribs. You look at your risotto with distain.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Buyers remorse?” She asks around grin.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Well I didn’t know you’d get ribs.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Im good at ordering from a menu.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Is that a thing people can be good at?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“You tell me.” She tears into another rib with gusto.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You pout and she laughs.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She stops eating for a second and holds her hand out to you. You look at her questioningly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Give me your plate”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">When you don’t immediately she makes a vague gesture of impatience with her hand. Once you offer it, she takes it from you and you watch as she scrapes half the risotto onto her plate and replaces it with half of her ribs.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She hands the plate back to you and you are stuck for a moment. The pause must make her self conscious.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Its only ribs, come on.” She gestures for you to take the plate.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You avoid her gaze, genuinely unsure of what you are meant to say, unused to being the recipient of this kind of gesture. Pathetic really, it is only ribs after all.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You take a breath and smile at her.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Thank you, Eve.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She smiles back at you and then returns to her plate.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">——————————</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">The spectre of the bed looms large, and the later it gets into the evening the more fidgety she becomes. Honestly its becoming annoying, its not like you are going to completely lose control the moment she settles in next to you.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">The fidgeting eventually became so annoying that you have retreated into the relative safety of a bath. There are no oils or bubble baths left as complementaries by this oh so very average hotel. Urgh. Serves you right for letting someone else make the travel arrangements. Without those things it feels a little— dull.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You don’t spend long and once you are dry you search through your bag looking for your pyjamas. You packed a simple plain vest and shorts, not quite what you’d have chosen for the first time you shared a bed with her you think wryly, her loss you suppose.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">It doesn’t seem to matter though because once you leave the bathroom she stares anyway.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You don’t acknowledge her gaze but you feel it all the same when you walk toward the bed, stopping briefly in front of it.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Erm— do you have a side?” You ask her quietly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She points vaguely at the side nearest her. “Is it big enough to have sides?” She answers grumpily.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You shrug.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“I’ll take this side I guess.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Her voice sounds weird, yours does too.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">This is ridiculous.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You nod and walk over to the other side of the bed, pulling back the cover and settling into the starchy feel of too frequently washed sheets.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She huffs out a breath and walks into the bathroom shutting the door behind her.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">This is fine. You won’t look and you won’t touch, so it’s fine.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">When she comes back in she’s wearing an oversized t shirt and shorts. The t shirt neckline hangs slightly low and you can see her collar bone so you quickly look away.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She shuffles toward the bed and takes care not to catch your eye once she’s in bed she lays flat staring at the ceiling. Her arms lay flush against your arms, and when her feet accidentally knock into yours, you can’t help the giggle that erupts. She turns to face you and grins before laughing too.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“This is so stupid, this bed is so fucking small.” She says whilst still laughing, “I actually think I had something bigger in college.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“I might have had something bigger in prison.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She huffs a laugh again, then turns on her side, resting her head on her hand to look at you again.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“This feels weird, to be on a bed together again. After— you know, what happened in Paris.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You turn and mirror her position, your knees brush hers and you feel it everywhere. You’ve been so starved for her skin that even this light brush of knees feels intimate.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“I wasn’t even thinking about that.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Really?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“No. We’re done with that aren’t we?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She nods before turning onto her back again to stare up at the ceiling. She still looks so tense.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Hey." You brush the back of her hand with your fingers, "Im not going to do anything, honestly. You can relax, I promise.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She huffs out another laugh.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Jesus, you think thats the problem?”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You shrug a shoulder.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Things have been different, haven’t they? Better? Then tonight, this ridiculous fucking bed and— you — your hair— and you look— .” She exhales roughly</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">It comes out in a rush as if she might lose the courage to say the words if she took too long about it.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Your heart thumps in your chest and your stomach knots. Despite the part of you reminding yourself that these moments with her never come without a price, you shift closer on the bed, you can feel her body pressed up against the length of yours now. You hesitate for a moment but then summon the courage to touch her cheek lightly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Can I kiss you? We don’t have to—, I just— I just want to kiss you. Please.” The part of you that knows better hates the sincerity in your voice, the innocent hopefulness is just too much for that side of yourself to stomach.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She turns to you again and you watch the conflict play out in her face, the disappointment at seeing it there is crushing.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She smiles sadly and you know you shouldn’t have bothered to asked.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Look, I’m an adult ok? I know where this leads, we aren’t going to sweetly kiss goodnight and then turn over are we? And I just don’t think we should start down that road. We aren’t good for each other— “ She trails off.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You’ve heard it before, you pull down the mask. You aren’t even angry with her. She’s right, you aren’t good for each other, you know that. You just can’t silence that voice that keeps whispering in your ear; maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">It doesn’t matter though. You aren’t going to force the issue. You certainly know where that leads.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Thats ok. Im going to read my phone for a bit so i’ll leave my light on for a while if thats ok”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You return to nonchalance and smile benignly as if she had turned down the offer of a cup of tea.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">She looks a little winded by the sudden change in your manner.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Good.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Sure, ok.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You reach for your phone and mindlessly scroll through whatever website, just enough to make it look believable.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Vill?” She asks quietly after a little while.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Hmm?” You force yourself not to even glance at her.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Thanks. For telling me, about the sunset, I mean. It was really pretty.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You can’t help looking down then. Her face is as guileless as she is probably capable of and you see this for what it is, an olive branch in the face of her rejection before.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">You smile slightly, you’re surprised to find its genuine.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">Your hand reaches for hers and squeezes it lightly.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">“Any time.”</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sharing food with someone who makes a bad menu choice is true love, you will not convince we otherwise.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Babyfic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No chickens were harmed in the making of this chapter.</p><p>Buuut.... just for once_a_potato ...if you consider the Niko/Eve chicken a major character...tw for major character death..oops</p><p>Annnddd...for foreverchanges....major character death warning for Villanelle’s trousers which, knowing what we do about Eve’s cleaning habits, probably do not survive coming into contact with her kitchen floor...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Eve. I like you a lot but you are shit at looking after babies”</p><p> </p><p>She glances up at you, harassed and is that shit on her cheek? Possibly.</p><p> </p><p>She looks blankly for a second before she starts to laugh in that slightly unnerving way that she does on occasion. Well. She’s not pissed off at you for saying it at least.</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I kind of hate babies.”</p><p> </p><p>That makes you laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“Give her to me. Let me—“</p><p> </p><p>The laughter draws to a close.</p><p> </p><p>“Vill-“ Then she exhales a sigh.</p><p> </p><p>It's something new, that nickname, something that has appeared more and more over the last few weeks. It's not something you’ve allowed anyone else to indulge in before. It’s kind of nice.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh sure, ‘don’t let the psychopath touch the baby’ I know. But do you really think I could be worse at it than you?”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs again but keeps hold of the struggling bundle in her arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Your not a— Look, these aren’t my rules and it’s not my baby.”</p><p> </p><p>You step back holding up your hands in mock surrender.</p><p> </p><p>“Ok, ok. You called me though, remember.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I forgot how shit I am at caring for actual living things.”</p><p> </p><p>You snort out another sound of amusement. </p><p> </p><p>She turns back to the baby laying on the mat on the floor of her living room, then looks back at you.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck it, come here, help, please. Do something”</p><p> </p><p>You shift her out the way and look down at the little creature staring back at you. It’s a weird thing to look at a baby. Presumably you’re meant to suddenly want one of your own? You tilt your head in consideration. You don’t. This one is nice enough. It's got a lot of hair which is cute, it's wearing a little top with a peter pan collar which is also nice. Are you meant to feel something else?</p><p> </p><p>You lift her legs and begin tidying her up. Its gross but bodies often are, new like this or dead, it doesn’t matter there will always be an element of gross about them. You aren’t squeamish, not in the way that you have newly discovered her to be. Strange how you can show her the most gruesome of deaths and she wouldn’t blink, but the messy side of life sends her running from the room.</p><p> </p><p>When you arrived this evening after listening to a panicked voicemail left on your phone you found her upstairs trying to balance a baby covered in shit in a bath deep enough for an adult. Sometimes its quite annoying that this is the woman who found you. This woman who can’t come up with a sensible way to clean a dirty baby.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re good at this, so much better than me.” She says softly behind you.</p><p> </p><p>“You really don’t like babies?” You ask.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me either.”</p><p> </p><p>“You seem much less likely to accidentally let one die though.”</p><p> </p><p>You shrug. “So no running off into the sunset and starting a family together then?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s her turn to laugh now and you turn to find her clearly considering whether to tell you something. Along with the nickname have come these moments where she openly ponders whether to tell you something, whether to deepen whatever it is that is hanging between you. Ostensibly you know that most of what she gives is nothing significant, but you cant help that every small stupid detail that she reveals feels like growing intimacy between you. </p><p> </p><p>“You know Niko and I had a chicken?”</p><p> </p><p>You nod.</p><p> </p><p>“I moved back in here two months ago—“ She raises her eyebrows and shrugs awkwardly.</p><p> </p><p>You bite your bottom lip to hide the grin that comes unbidden.</p><p> </p><p>“It died?” You ask</p><p> </p><p>“No! No! Well. I don’t know. It just— wasn’t there.”</p><p> </p><p>You give her a look.</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn't there when you moved back in?”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything and shugs again.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, when did you first go and check on it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Last week?”</p><p> </p><p>“Eve!” It comes out sounding scandalised, and you are a bit.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean Niko probably took it, right?”</p><p> </p><p>You laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“And I’m the one who isn’t allowed to touch the baby?”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs again.</p><p> </p><p>“They aren’t my rules. I told you.”</p><p> </p><p>You murmur in acknowledgment but say nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you have lots of little kids around you growing up?”</p><p> </p><p>Something tightens in your stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>The little legs in front of you pump up and down in excitement. What did your mother feel when she looked down at you like this? Did she feel the same casual disinterest that you feel now, or did she feel what normal people do when they look at a baby?</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want a glass of wine?” She asks.</p><p> </p><p>“No, thank you. A coffee might be nice though.”</p><p> </p><p>The little person in front of you giggles when you put the nappy on, and you drum your fingers on her stomach to prompt more giggles. Did your mother tickle your tummy when she did this? Did she do it for Pyotr or Borka? </p><p> </p><p>You told her that she was the darkness, and that is still true, but it is inside you too. Was it inside you when you were this tiny? Does this baby have it?  Jess doesn’t seem particularly— wrong, but does it always have to come from a parent? Can it ever just be inside someone from the start? </p><p> </p><p>You prefer that explanation, you prefer to think that your darkness was knitted into you from the start.  Killing people is fun, or it was. You are good at it, or you were. And it’s part of what keeps Eve’s focus on you. To explain that part of yourself  away as just  a genetic hand me down from your shitty mother feels like giving up yet more of yourself to someone who didn’t love you in the way that you needed, you’ve done enough of that in your life.</p><p> </p><p>She interrupts your thoughts, “Apparently being shit at caring about things means I can’t remember if you have milk or not so—“ </p><p> </p><p>“With is fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well good because I’m not making another, Niko took the kettle so all I’ve got left is a travel one from a camping holiday about five years ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hate camping.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p> </p><p>The baby yawns, so you pick her up ready to put her back into the car seat waiting on the coffee table.  You brush your fingers against her plump little cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“Want to see something cool?” You ask Eve over your shoulder as you wrap the blanket over fast kicking legs.</p><p> </p><p>She nods.</p><p> </p><p>You grab your phone and turn on the app that you used with the bin baby and never deleted. The harsh buzz of white noise fills the room and Eve looks at you questioningly.</p><p> </p><p>“Trust me” You tell her.</p><p> </p><p>You watch as little eyes begin to close and the previously fast pumping limbs settle into sleep. All in all it takes about five minutes, and when the baby is properly asleep you look up at Eve who is still staring at you. You pick up your coffee and gesture for her to follow you into her kitchen where you take a seat on the floor with your knees bent up and your back resting up against a cabinet. She copies and sits close.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re magic.”</p><p> </p><p>You laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“It's pretty well known, didn’t you just google it if you were having trouble?”</p><p> </p><p>“Did it look like I googled it?”</p><p> </p><p>You tilt your head in acknowledgment.</p><p> </p><p>There's silence for a while but for the white noise buzzing in the background and the two of you sipping your drinks. She mirrors your position, back against the cabinet and knees bent, she shifts slightly to allow her legs to rest against yours.</p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you have children?” You ask.</p><p> </p><p>She snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously? After what I just told you about the chicken? Would you want to have a child with me?”</p><p> </p><p>You picture a bossy little girl with a head full of dark curls, and its— nice.</p><p> </p><p>The thought comes unbidden and unexpected with an accompanying nameless feeling in your chest  but you have the good sense to stay silent.</p><p> </p><p>“Honestly?” She continues, “I just didn’t want to. Niko—“ </p><p> </p><p>She sips from the wine glass.</p><p> </p><p>“— he wasn’t one to push.”</p><p> </p><p>You nod. Why did your mother choose to have children? Was it just what was expected or was there a time when she really did want you?</p><p> </p><p>“I’d have been a terrible mother anyway.” She says wistfully.</p><p> </p><p>“The nappies and the bottles are easy, you can learn that stuff. My mother left me at an orphanage because I was— difficult. So really, I doubt you’d have been that bad.”</p><p> </p><p>She puts down the glass and leans forward against her raised legs.</p><p> </p><p>“Difficult?” She repeats the word as a question.</p><p> </p><p>“As a kid I was— angry, violent, wrong. But probably not bad enough to be sent to an orphanage. Not then anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>You don’t know why you told her that.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think that baby in there is evil?” You ask her.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at you for a second before answering.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” </p><p> </p><p>You nod and return to the relative safety of your mug of badly made coffee.</p><p> </p><p>“What was she like? Your mother.” Eve asks.</p><p> </p><p>You smile grimly.</p><p> </p><p>“Angry, violent, wrong”</p><p> </p><p>She frowns. You shrug.</p><p> </p><p>“And you think you’re the same?” She asks.</p><p> </p><p>There’s pressure behind your eyes and you blink furiously, refusing to let a single tear fall.</p><p> </p><p>“I talked to Anna about you, for a long time. Did you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>A weird segue but you let her continue. </p><p> </p><p>“When she talked about you, she didn’t say anything like that. She said you were rude, and funny and clever. And you are. You can be violent and angry too, but those aren’t the only things you are.”</p><p> </p><p>Things have been better between you since the stupidly small bed, funny what admitting that your mutual attraction exists but is ultimately doomed does for a dynamic. But even so, these awful moments when her kindness cuts as much as her cruelty are too much to endure and sometimes the urge to destroy them is too great to refuse. </p><p> </p><p>You huff out a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“A miscalculation that didn’t turn out very well for her poor Maxi.” You pull a cartoonish sad face.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t do that.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” You ask it innocently.</p><p> </p><p>The baby starts to fuss again despite the magic white noise app. You roll your eyes and get up to approach the baby. She’s heavy in your arms as you pull her up and out of the car seat, her face screwed up at the injustice of not getting what she wants and not having the words to ask for it. You sympathise.</p><p> </p><p>You turn to face her and remind yourself that this is the same game as always, Eve offers scraps and you hope they preempt something more but they never do. Its exhausting and honestly tonight you can’t quite face it.</p><p> </p><p>“I killed her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Anna?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. But I could have done, if I’d wanted to.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you didn’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>You shrug.</p><p> </p><p>“Who did you kill?”</p><p> </p><p>“My mother.”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything, just looks. She always looks.</p><p> </p><p>You walk towards her still holding the baby.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>You sigh, and continue to lightly bounce.</p><p> </p><p>“I went to see them, her. After the bus, but before Glasgow.”</p><p> </p><p>She looks pained. It’s probably because the baby is being cuddled by the psychopath, you gesture as if to pass her back to Eve.</p><p> </p><p>She backs away and shakes her head. </p><p> </p><p>“No, she’s happy with you.” She says it dismissively, too focused on this new piece of yourself that you are offering her. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me.” She says.</p><p> </p><p>You shush the baby for a moment, possibly to buy yourself some time. Why did you raise this again? You ought to know now that far from discouraging her, it’s these sort of things which encourage her to burrow deeper. But you knew that so maybe you’re just greedy and crave her interest in any form.</p><p> </p><p>“She was like me. Or I am like her. I thought it would help.”</p><p> </p><p>“And did it?”</p><p> </p><p>You snort in response.</p><p> </p><p>“Well I can’t kill anyone without almost having a panic attack, so you tell me, am I cured?”</p><p> </p><p>She’s silent.</p><p> </p><p>The baby seems to be asleep again. Strange how this little creature can’t sense the danger she’s in, resting so calmly now against your shoulder.  Aren’t children meant to be able to sense when someone is evil, or is that dogs? Dogs like you too though, so maybe that whole theory is shit. You walk back toward the car seat and lean down to put the baby back, leaving your hand against her  briefly to stop her from waking at the loss of the warmth of your body. When you look up you find Eve much closer than expected.</p><p> </p><p>You feel your body tense, bracing for whatever she’s going to inflict on you next, deliberate cruelty or her casual kindness. She reaches out and places her hand gently on top of yours where its sits on the handle of the car seat. Kindness then, you steel yourself.</p><p> </p><p>“I meant what I said before, you aren't all any one thing. If parts of you are evil, and I don’t know if I even believe in that, then there are parts of you I’ve seen that aren’t. I’ve seen you deliberately hurt and I’ve seen you kill, but i’ve seen something else too and— “ </p><p> </p><p>She takes a breath, steadies herself for another plunge into the ever growing intimacy that has been wrapping itself around you both from the start but has intensified over the last few months.</p><p> </p><p>“ — Jesus, I don’t know if I even care one way or the other anymore— I should, I know that, I just—  “</p><p> </p><p>The doorbell rings, she hesitates.</p><p> </p><p>"I should-- " </p><p> </p><p>She steps back and you instantly miss the warm weight of her palm over your fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”  What else are you meant to say?</p><p> </p><p>The bell rings again.</p><p> </p><p>She hesitates again.</p><p> </p><p>Your chest aches.</p><p> </p><p>“God I feel like an asshole saying this, but could you go out the back?”</p><p> </p><p>Well there it is.</p><p> </p><p>“That sounded shit I know, but Jess really, really didn’t want—“</p><p> </p><p>“No, no. I get it. It doesn’t matter— “</p><p> </p><p>“— shit, it does and we were talking and—  I’m really sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>You shrug and plaster on what you hope reads as an indifferent expression.</p><p> </p><p>The bell rings again and she continues to hover. </p><p> </p><p>Urgh. </p><p> </p><p>Her indecision is as annoying as it always is, so you turn away before she does. </p><p> </p><p>The back door sticks slightly and you have to wrench it open. Part of you wants to slam it closed and prompt Jess to ask about the noise. Would you have even hesitated about doing that before fingers pressed lightly over old wounds,  or before knees brushing gently on a tiny bed? </p><p> </p><p>No, before you would have forced her to deal with her shame, forced her to confront what she feels and what she wants. You think of Anna’s apartment block and the service entrance that she always asked you to sneak out of, you left by the front door every time. </p><p> </p><p>Things are different now, and you don’t want to force her, you want her to choose. So yes, you could have touched her in that hotel room and forced her to acknowledge that nagging desire you know she feels, you could slam this door now and force her to admit that now she turns to you when she needs help. </p><p> </p><p>But you don’t and you don’t because things are different, or maybe you are different, or maybe she’s right and this side of you always existed right along side the rest.</p><p> </p><p>You close the door quietly and let yourself believe for the first time in a long time that if you keep giving her the opportunity to choose one day it might actually be you.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The shocking thing for me about writing this is how much I’d actually forgotten about how to look after a baby. Seriously though, I had one 3 years ago and I genuinely can’t remember any of the detail. </p><p>Something about nappies and not letting them die??</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Baby it’s cold outside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Do you ever think the universe would stop torturing us with stuff like this if we just gave up and had sex already?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You snort inelegantly into the bare skin where her shoulder meets her neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought you said that no one was allowed to say anything to make things weird?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on. First it was the trunk of a car, then it was the stupidly small bed and now we’re naked, under a pile of coats, because otherwise we might freeze to death. As if you aren’t thinking it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t, and we aren’t naked anyway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You had the good sense to suggest that underwear remained on, the bolt of arousal that shot through you at the thought of her tits pressed tightly against yours was enough for you know that it absolutely could not be allowed to happen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She groans in frustration before continuing. “This is ridiculous. This sort of thing wouldn’t happen to Carolyn.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your head tilts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. Ok. It would. But only if she planned it all to get information or something.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You feel a smirk cross your features.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you planning on interrogating me, Agent Polastri?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t say anything for a moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. No. Don’t say that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh shut up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lean into her shoulder again and smother a laugh into her skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And could you— you know— not touch me with your mouth?” She sounds pained saying it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well—“ you begin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t finish that sentence.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Its actually kind of nice to see this blatant evidence of how badly she wants you, even if she seems fairly mortified about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey. Listen? It’s just like the hotel bed. Nothings going to happen. They’ll trace your phone, and come for us in the morning, we just need to focus on not freezing to death.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She murmurs and shifts slightly on top of you and you work very hard to keep your breathing even.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you’re sure this works?” She asks and you notice that the chatter in her teeth is back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well— it works on tv, so yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can feel her trembling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s switch again, ok? I’m bigger and you’re shivering again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s fine we said half an hour each on top—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve.” You interrupt. “Let me help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she very reluctantly nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Should I roll? Or do you roll? Or should we get up? Or—?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you always ask this many questions? Because if we ever do have sex—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You register the feeling of a hand on your hip and one at your shoulder, before a leg hooks around you and you’re being pulled toward her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Arms scrabble behind your back as coats are rearranged over your head and shoulders. But it bearly registers as there is now a leg wrapped around yours and the cotton of her underwear pressed into your thigh. You swallow and carefully meet her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks a little shocked to have actually done this and you break into laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve Polastri, you’ve got moves!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shoves your shoulder and tries hard to look irritated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You feel her hands settle at your hips and it’s every fantasy you’ve ever indulged in and more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can— you know, rest against me, if you want. You know, because it’s skin to skin contact that will keep us alive so—“  She rushes it out, then hisses out a breath as you settle more firmly against her, and that is when this moment becomes the worst of all the moments. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the worst because the first time your bare thigh should press into her like this is because she finally begged for it and the first time that her hands hold your hips like that should be to guide your movement. Neither of those things, and none of any of this should be because of a broken down car in the middle of some frozen hellscape in whatever bit of Scandinavia you’ve escaped into. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck it’s cold. Even inside this, probably haunted, abandoned house the temperature must be dangerously below freezing. Despite this moment being the worst, you don’t really want to die, and you absolutely don’t want her to either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vil?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You smile and press your cold nose into her still warm neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like it when you call me that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t respond but you feel her fingers shift on your waist in a way she would never accept as being  described as stroking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we’ll be alright here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re fine. We just need to stay awake for as long as possible.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay” She stretches the syllable. “So, what should we do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To stay awake.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You shift your weight and pull back to look down at her. “Talk?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Ok. Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Theres silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you finding working for MI6?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” You ask</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? You wanted to talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wow, the woman who won me over with the whole ‘I just want to know everything’ speech wants to do an appraisal. I cant tell you how disappointing this is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pinch lightly at the skin on her side and she bats your hand away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok, ok. What am I allowed to ask?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You half shrug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want, what’s the first thing that comes into your head?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Theres a pause.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, first thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What about you—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, come on, first thing you want to ask me”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, now, don’t be—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you look?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You take a second to think.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t I look at what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now, before we got under the coats, any of it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Huh. Not where you thought she would go with that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Its not—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t quite know how to express it. It just didn’t feel right, none of this does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not the way that I want it to be. I want— I want the first time I get to look, really look I mean, I want the first time to be because you are undressing for me, not because its cold and we need to share body heat. I want it to be romantic. Flowers and candles and nice things.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You looked in her kitchen all those months ago, of course you did, but things are different now. She’s not just a passing interest and you don’t want the first time that you get to see her, really see her, to be for any other reason than she wants you to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her fingers flex slightly on your hips and you swallow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You care about that stuff?” She asks</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Less and less.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You murmur in response. You can feel every inch of her pressed into your skin and this is the worst torture you could have devised for yourself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You know what you are going to ask her before the words form. You hate that you want to ask and you know that you’ll do it anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you look?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorts a laugh but doesn’t answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you look at me?” You ask again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hesitates then rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And?” You ask hopefully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And?” She sounds so amused and the tension from a moment ago has calmed slightly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And— what did you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The snort turns into a cackle and her face presses into the skin on your neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I like to hear it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another soft laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll remember that.” It's breathed into your ear and her lips ghost the shell gently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can’t help that your legs tighten on the thigh pressing insistently between yours, or the hand that is now somehow tangling itself through the curls in her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No one speaks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand draws up your back. Fingers brush your bra strap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The inside of a thigh presses at your hip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The arch of foot runs down your calf. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s still wearing socks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your chest aches.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmmm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A thumb strokes your hip bone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the worst moment, you correct your earlier thought. This thumb pressing gently, inches from where you want it, is the worst thing that has ever happened to you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can’t do this now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs out a long breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean we could— “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You laugh and press your lips to her jaw. It’s the first kiss you’ve ever given her, light and gentle in a way that she has never really tolerated from you before these last few weeks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can’t. It’s too cold, we need to keep warm not use up energy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The leg drops from your hip, and you feel her rearrange the coats spread over your back again, perhaps to give her hands something to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God you’re annoying.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You laugh against her jaw and she shivers again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can thank me later when we don’t die.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs grumpily before turning quiet and you do too, but its not the same silence that existed before. This time it feels less loaded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We could— maybe once we’re home, maybe we could—“ She pauses awkwardly and you hang in the silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe we could go for a drink?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A grin threatens to crack across your face and you bite your lip to hold it in. Such a polite request from the woman who has yet to stop her hand from absently tracing the line of your bra strap across your back, or to move the thigh that remains pressed tightly between yours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lean away and look down at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That would be very nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lay back down against her shoulder but your fingers continue to play absently in her hair, and her hand lingers on the small of your back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like peonies.” You tell her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like peonies? For our date, I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s drinks?” She makes it a question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t bring your date flowers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That explains so much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cranes her head to look at you with a faintly bemused expression, her warm breath visible in the frozen air around you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to bring me flowers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So we’d just be in a bar with two bouquets of flowers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah? Haven’t you ever dated a woman before?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you?” She asks right back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. ‘Dated’ is a strong word. Fucked is another altogether more familiar description. Screwed. Had. Banged? Boned? Do people still say that? Made love to? Ok, maybe not that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god. It’s going to be your first date!” She says it with such relish, she is the worst.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No it isn’t!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wow, yes it is!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You flounder for a second, suddenly acutely aware of how close to naked you actually are.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. It’s your first date with a woman too.” Your voice is annoyingly sulky, you were aiming for indignant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs out a far more gentle laugh and her hands drift up your back, one into your hair and the other toward your face. She draws your face up to look at her but you hold your head still and away from her gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m only kidding around. Ok? You’ve had plenty of my firsts, it’s nice to get one of yours”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s why it bothers you, you realise, you’re the experienced one, you’re the one in control of this side of things. Except you aren’t. Not really. You know where and how to touch her, sure, but the rest of it? Dates with too many bouquets of flowers? Confessions of love which don’t end with leaving someone for dead? You don’t know where to start. She probably doesn’t either, from what you saw she was a shitty wife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look at me?” She asks and you do this time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her cold fingers sift lightly through your hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s something more here, right? More than just murder and chasing and sex?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t trust yourself not to fuck this up so you somehow manage to stay silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, let’s try it, just drinks, and see what happens.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just drinks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not quite a declaration of eternal love but it’s something. It’s drinks. Just drinks. It’s going to be excellent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You smile at her, you know you look goofy even before she starts speaking again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh no, stop it,  you’re all— cute and smiley and blushy. Stop it—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You do it before you really think about it. A soft press of your lips to hers. Her nose is cold and her fingers touch the back of your neck. It’s not loaded with the charged tension from before, it’s something altogether sweeter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then it’s done and you draw away from her slightly. Her tongue traces her bottom lip and you track the movement with eager eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You clear your throat quietly but your voice is still darker, heavier than usual.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drinks then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm? Yes, sure, drinks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Candles?” You ask hopefully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t bring your own candles to a bar.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What if they are already there?” You ask</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Urgh. If they are already there, then fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And flowers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses again and you grin watching her playfully roll her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p><br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For those interested, here is the bouquet that V is envisaging. It’s pretty low key, you know, whatever. It’s just drinks, so— something from Marks would do. </p><p>It’s fine. </p><p>She’s chill.</p><p>https://www.marksandspencer.com/collection-winter-peony-bouquet-delivery-from-27th-november-2020-/p/flp60482345?extid=ps_ps-gpla_ggl_flowers_food__-_UK_-_-_&amp;gclsrc=aw.ds&amp;&amp;gclid=CjwKCAiAn7L-BRBbEiwAl9UtkPy4jrEWre8OjRH7O0v7naKJKiN5CHglLEQn0q1xSdSIKow9B13xrhoCVa0QAvD_BwE&amp;gclsrc=aw.ds</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In vino veritas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So. A bit of truth between Eve and Villanelle. Sure to be just cute bickering about who liked who first, right?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know I promised to use the JemmaBot but this was posted from a hotel bathroom on my phone.</p><p>I was banned from bringing my laptop.</p><p>So take it up with spayne+1 and remember any weird formatting is my own and not a reflection on the JemmaBot</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eve is a dickhead.</p><p> </p><p>“You have really nice skin. Have I ever told you that?”</p><p> </p><p>Ok. She’s cute but she’s a dickhead.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s like you glow or something—” </p><p> </p><p>Really cute, but still a dick head.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches out to touch you for what seems like the thousandth time since you dragged her out of a warehouse near Heathrow. She prods at your face indelicately, which you allow until her fingers press over a newly forming bruise. Your hand darts out to grab hers and you must be too rough because she lets out a small noise of discomfort. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” You tell her as you lift her fingers to your lips. Being able to touch her like this is still new and you imagine you can feel a flush across your cheekbones.</p><p> </p><p>Her face softens.</p><p> </p><p>“I like it when you kiss me.”</p><p> </p><p>Really really cute, yes, but still a dickhead.</p><p> </p><p>A dickhead because she let herself get abducted. A dickhead because she let herself get abducted by amateurs who pumped her full of chemicals to make her talk. A dickhead because you thought you’d be too late and would arrive to find her dead. A dickhead because your fingernails are stained in someone else’s blood again.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like kissing me?” Her voice is pitched low, in a way that feels too deliberate.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.” You fix her with a level stare.</p><p> </p><p>She returns her voice to normal, “What?”</p><p> </p><p>You blow a breath of exaggerated patience through your nose.</p><p> </p><p>“We shouldn’t talk about that stuff when you’re—“ you wave your hand vaguely in the direction of her where she sits on her bed, “—like this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh come on, whatever they gave me is only making me feel dizzy, it’s not even affecting me, and if there is any proof that truth serum actually works, which there isn’t, I’m probably immune or something.”</p><p> </p><p>“You spent the whole journey back here telling me all the reasons that you like my hair.”</p><p> </p><p>She pulls a face. </p><p> </p><p>“Because your hair always smells amazing. I’d tell you that anyway, that’s not because of—.”</p><p> </p><p>She breaks off to rest her head back on the headboard and closes her eyes, presumably overwhelmed by the nausea Carolyn told you to expect. You gingerly approach the bed and sit down before you can think better of it. She breathes slowly through her nose for a moment before turning her attention back to you.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re ok. Carolyn said this would happen, you’ll be— chatty—  and nauseous for a while and then you’ll be ok.”</p><p> </p><p>She huffs out an irritated sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“God this feels like the worst kind of hangover.”</p><p> </p><p>“There are good hangovers?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you know, when you wake up feeling shitty but know you had a good night and you can spend the next twelve hours wrapped in your duvet?”</p><p> </p><p>You don’t. Not really. But that's an entirely different and altogether more depressing conversation so you opt instead to nod vaguely.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, definitely.” </p><p> </p><p>There, that sounded like the sort of thing a person with a normal history of social interactions would say. Perfect.</p><p> </p><p>“God, I’ve not been out like that in ages.” She tilts her head back against the headboard again.</p><p> </p><p>“You really miss that sort of stuff?” You ask</p><p> </p><p>“Not all the time, but sometimes just being out and having a drink and talking to friends about shit and, oh god the karaoke! I miss— fun.” She lets out a hollow laugh.</p><p> </p><p>You despise the sting that comes with the insinuation that her life now isn't fun, that you are not fun. Have you always been this fragile? Did you ever let anyone else cut away at you with so many of these tiny paper cuts? You doubt it.</p><p> </p><p>“So let's make ‘just drinks’, just karaoke?” </p><p> </p><p>You hate the suggestion as soon as it leaves your mouth.</p><p> </p><p>She opens an eye to look at you.</p><p> </p><p>“Thats different.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? Why? I can be— I am fun.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“You are, but karaoke is a friend thing.”</p><p> </p><p>She tips her head back against the headboard and closes her eyes again.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re friends.”</p><p> </p><p>She snorts in response.</p><p> </p><p>“No we aren't. Half the time I can hardly decide whether I want to understand you, fuck you or never see you again.” </p><p> </p><p>Ouch. </p><p> </p><p>That shouldn't hurt. Not really, but it sort of does because the ties that you have started to weave around each other have felt like something deeper than attraction. The lunches in the office cafeteria have been nice. Drinking coffee together whilst sitting on her kitchen floor was nice, even if you had to dry clean your trousers afterwards. Almost dying in Norway was also actually kind of nice. Getting to know her has been nice.</p><p> </p><p>Alright, so sometimes all of those nice wholesome friendship things are interspersed with wanting to press her against a wall, kneel and pull her leg over your shoulder before-- you stop the thought deliberately. But that isn't the only thing that's between you. She even acknowledged it herself. </p><p> </p><p>So you take a breath and remind yourself that truth serum isn't a thing, at best lowers inhibitions, it doesn't mean this is the truth but it grates closely enough to all your barely closed wounds to sting all the same.</p><p> </p><p>“You killed them. Back at the warehouse.” She states it suddenly without any discernible emotions one way or the other. </p><p> </p><p>“I did.”</p><p> </p><p>“You could have waited for Carolyn to organise armed police or something.”</p><p> </p><p>No, you really couldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>You shrug but she doesn't see, her eyes still closed and head tipped back against the headboard. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d forgotten what it feels like—” She pauses, “to watch you kill.”</p><p> </p><p>You watch her throat work as she swallows.</p><p> </p><p>Truthfully you’d forgotten how it could feel too. Far from the panic before kicking Rian beneath a train, this felt far more warm, more familiar. Honestly, it felt good. The pleasant burn in your wrist from the handgun’s kickback, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath your feet and the give of crushed cartilage between your fingers. No, that didn't bring on panic, you felt calm, assured, it's the most you’ve felt like yourself in a long time.  </p><p> </p><p>“And, what did you think?” You ask her with the same words as you did in Norway. It’s the same question really; <em> now you’ve let yourself look, what do you think about me? </em></p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head forward to look at you, there’s a flush of colour high on her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Intense, horrible, beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>You let the words sink into you and you hold her gaze as she leans toward you. Your breath catches in your chest as you watch her eyes drop to your mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Was it like it was before Russia? You didn’t seem panicked, you seemed confident, in control. Did it feel different?” Her voice is deeper than you’re used to, you watch her teeth skim her lower lip.</p><p> </p><p><em> Yes, it felt good again, it felt better than before Russia even, killing for you felt good. Knowing you were there watching me felt good. </em>The words stick in your throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Eve.” You try to stop her gently. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me.” Her voice is firm, you realise she isn’t asking and you feel it everywhere. </p><p> </p><p>“It felt—” </p><p> </p><p>You watch her inch toward you on the bed and you feel yourself being drawn closer still. It's too much suddenly and you try to turn your face only for her hand to curve under your jaw and return your face to her gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“Villanelle” She prompts</p><p> </p><p>“It felt—”</p><p> </p><p>You pause again and she loses patience, but instead of more questions she presses her insistent mouth to yours. The kiss is a world away from the soft press of lips in Norway, her hands hold your face steady, her tongue greedily presses against yours before her teeth sink into your bottom lip and you imagine she’ll break the skin, picturing your blood smeared across her mouth only makes you want her more. Then her hands are moving, and maybe yours are too because you are conscious of your hand pressed against bare skin at her waist and your top being pulled free from where it is tucked into your trousers at the small of your back. Her hand reaches round to tug at the buckle and this is getting away from you. </p><p> </p><p>“Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>She moves to places kisses along your jawline and down toward your neck and the feeling that shoots down between your legs almost makes you lose your resolve. </p><p> </p><p>Would it be so bad? Truth serum, right? The truth is that she wants you, so where's the harm? Something twists in you, because that isn't right. This can’t all be on her terms or this is just another Anna, and whilst this sort of hook up might be what she wants in this moment, you want something more. </p><p> </p><p>You want her when there are no more lingering doubts about how real this is, you want her when you know that she wants you and not just because of circumstance. It can be like this, driven by greed and hunger and blood, with feral hands tearing into clothes but if there happen to be flowers and candles nearby then you want that too. Why can’t it be both?</p><p> </p><p>So you draw her head back up and you can’t help but press one final kiss to her greedy mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“We— we shouldn’t do this now.” Your voice comes out far more certain than you feel.</p><p> </p><p>She huffs out a frustrated sigh and buries her face in your shoulder, you sympathise and shift restlessly where you sit on the bed. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re so annoying.” It's muffled against the fabric of your top and it makes you smile. It is annoying, she’s right. But you wouldn’t fuck her for the first time if she was drunk, and this can’t be much different. </p><p> </p><p>When she pulls back enough for you to look at her, she's flushed and her hair is a mess. Did you do that? You must have. The thought makes you smile, she looks beautiful like this and your throat burns with the effort to hold back the words. She looks embarrassed so you run your fingers down her cheek in a gesture of what you hope she’ll read as reassurance.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” She says.</p><p> </p><p>You laugh at that.</p><p> </p><p>“For what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because it's weird isn't it?”</p><p> </p><p>You screw up your face, mildly put out. It's not weird. This is just another thing between you, the violence can be sexy. Everyone knows that. Surely.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh come on, it is weird.” </p><p> </p><p>The delivery is mildly sardonic but not angry.</p><p> </p><p> “Even I think it's weird. I’ll never forgive you for what you did to Bill but somehow I can still see you being so— brutal and covered in blood and christ all I can think about is finding any available surface and kissing you, touching you. Jesus. I’ll probably never forgive myself for that either. There is something seriously wrong with me.” </p><p> </p><p>She huffs out a humorless laugh and buries her face in her hands.</p><p> </p><p>You sit back, stung.</p><p> </p><p>The first time Anna made you come using her mouth you pulled her up your body and whispered in her ear that you loved her before placing what you hoped would be a tender kiss on her lips. She turned away and told you Maxi would be home soon. That probably hurt marginally less.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps stupidly you didn't think that this is the sort of truth that she’d subject you to tonight. She likes your hair, she thinks that you have pretty skin, she likes it when you kiss her, she thinks you look beautiful crushing a skull beneath your boots, she’ll never forgive the past, she hates herself for how she feels about you.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was naive to think she could ever put aside what you did to her friend, even for the possibility of ‘more’ which she thinks may linger beneath the surface. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever that means. </p><p> </p><p>The truth is you don’t regret killing him, you barely remember it. There have been so many bodies after all. You regret that she’s sad. You regret that she hasn’t got anyone to go to stupid karaoke with, and you regret doing something to make her hate you. But even you know that all that isnt the same as regretting what you did to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Vil?” She disturbs your thoughts and you look up to find her looking at you seemingly oblivious to the effect her words have had.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Would you get me a glass of water? I’m starting to feel sick again.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” </p><p> </p><p>You stand and your legs feel a little wobbly beneath you. As you turn she reaches out and takes your hand, she squeezes your fingers slightly before releasing them and offers you a gentle smile which you can’t help but return despite the hurt coiling in your stomach.</p><p> </p><p>As you leave the room to go downstairs to the kitchen you think that before tonight you could probably count on one hand the number of gentle touches she’s given you which were not overtly sexual. This is always the way it is with her though. Gentle then cruel. There is never one without the other. </p><p> </p><p>You search the cupboards to find clean glasses. God, she is such a slob, and all her cutlery is cheap, and you can never find matching plates, and would it kill her to wipe the counter tops once in awhile? It makes your throat close up, because those crappy details make up part of what you love about her. Your crappy details are that you have a favourite place to start off when you gut someone, and she can’t love that about you. Or worst still, she could but she’d hate herself for it.</p><p> </p><p>Your eyes burn and your throat and chest feel tight. You are not going to cry.</p><p> </p><p>You choose a mug and take it toward the sink to fill it up.</p><p> </p><p>You thought things were changing, you thought that maybe you were getting close to something. Perhaps this is just how things have to be for you. Never easy, never in quite the way you want them. You wonder once again how much longer you can go on like this with her? One step forward two steps back every time. A confession that she thinks about you all the time followed by a penetrating stab wound chaser. Acceptance that she sees and wants both your darkness and what she calls more, but in the next breath telling you she’d hate herself for it. </p><p> </p><p>You screw up your face and wipe the back of your hand angrily against your tightly closed eyes. You are not crying.</p><p> </p><p>You set the water filled mug on the side and stare at it.</p><p> </p><p>You could always just—not. You don’t have to keep throwing yourself into the tip of her knife. It’s a conscious choice, it always has been. So you could just stop. Maybe once you wouldn't have been able to do that, but you are different now. Older, maybe? Or just more tired perhaps.</p><p> </p><p>You did it with Anna. You stopped in stages. First you stopped the letters. Then you stopped picturing her with every woman that passed through your bed. Then you stopped your running list of things you wanted to say to her. You could do that again. It would be harder this time but you could do it. </p><p> </p><p>You take a deep breath.</p><p> </p><p>You take the mug back upstairs and find her sleeping. You put the mug down on the cluttered cabinet next to her. She’s an ugly sleeper. You smile despite yourself before leaning toward her to say the words, properly this time not like in Rome. Your own gift of truth for old times sake. She doesn't stir and sort of snores in response.</p><p> </p><p>You take a breath and go down toward the front door. Your shoes are neatly placed next to hers, you spare a thought for a different life where both of your things sitting side by side would be the norm. Once you are ready to go you open the door to find a nice evening waiting for you. Clear and with a nice bite to the air. </p><p> </p><p>This is good. You’re going to be alright, you’ll leave in stages, just like with Anna, and who knows maybe you’ll have to do it again in the future for someone else, for someone worse than Eve. Practice makes perfect after all. </p><p> </p><p>You shake your head to clear that depressing thought, and then you walk but this time you do not look back.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>NB - there are no good hangovers past 30. Do your excessive drinking now young ones.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. (Fake) Date</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The end.</p><p>Some of you may notice that this fic has increased in length by 50% as a result of this beast of a chapter. Turns out that it requires words to deal with hurt feelings, even the hurt feelings of a fictional character. Who knew?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I wrote Vienna, and someone binged it once I was done and left a comment on every chapter and I thought - huh thats cool, and then I  got on with my life.</p><p>Then later when I decided to indulge in twitter I noticed that every day my TL was swamped with Cate Blanchett retweets. Like all day, every day. And...she's hot, you know? So I thought I'll thank this mystery person for bringing me these gifs of joy and cheekbones...and I guess the rest is history.</p><p>So thanks Adri for bringing Cate into my life, for listening to me whinge about writing (all the time) and for consistently being the most ardent of cheerleaders. </p><p>Enjoy. I guess. Happy Birthday.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two thoughts strike you as you watch her apply lipstick in the bathroom mirror at your office. Firstly that she is impossibly beautiful and secondly that you shouldn’t really be allowed this intimate glimpse of her, not after everything that’s happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cranes toward the mirror and runs a finger over some perceived imperfection before her eyes meet yours in the mirror and she stiffens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” You tell her, and you are.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shrugs and returns to inspecting her reflection, and the thick silence that has returned over the last few weeks settles around you both again. The only difference between immediately after you stupidly walked away and did not look back and now, is that she is now making no attempt to bridge that gap between you. Only since she stopped has it really sunk in quite how one sided that effort has been. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” She snaps impatiently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You must have been staring, it stings more than you’d like when you think of how she used to enjoy your gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just making sure that everything is— ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tilts her head to the side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing my makeup?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right. Yeah, of course. You look— “ You flounder in the way that you always do, the truth too revealing or too syrupy sweet, or, more often than not now, both. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“— You look nice.” She does, the dress hidden beneath a ridiculously patterned robe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns away and begins looking through her make up bag rather than let you see any reaction first hand. Thats how its been for the two weeks since the stupid truth serum thing, all attempts by you to acknowledge the any intimacy woven  between you have been politely ignored. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no big explosion, no one left for dead, but she's been slowly pulling away ever since. It was a fuck up. Obviously. You should never have gone home with her knowing how fragile things are between the two of you, knowing how indelicate you are and that's without the aid of whatever bullshit chemicals you were full of to make you even less careful . But you did and somehow found a way to bring up the most obvious land mine still sitting between you.  So, yeah, a fuck up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to wear that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s looking at you in the mirror.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You look down at the clothes you put on this morning, plain and bobbled slightly from the wash, you flush with embarrassment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I’ll— I’ve got something else.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment she looks like she might want to say something more, but she seemingly thinks better of it and returns to her reflection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a dismissal if ever you’ve seen one, so you turn and leave.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>—///—</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Carolyn’s office is not how you pictured it. It has none of the elegance of the townhouse where she lived with Kenny, nor the homeliness of the house in Hampstead. It's just an office, lacking in any personal effects except the full length mirror which was your real reason for choosing to get ready in here. That and time and space it affords you to work out how this lace bodysuit is meant to be worn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is also the room where all of this started. It's the room where Carolyn abruptly announced that Villanelle had told her that she didn’t want yo— this anymore, that she’d be leaving at the end of the month. It's the room where you realised that whatever window remained for you to fix this was closing fast. That if you wanted something more than another big regret you’d have to do something about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s been the hardest part really, accepting that you do want something more with her. More difficult still was accepting what’s held you back is not her with all her complications and murder and death, its been about you and a lifetime of pretending not to be feeling the way you do. You’ve been shutting down this side of yourself for so long now that it's become a habit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Naturally the only way to describe your gut reaction to this reckoning of self discovery is utter mortification; anger feels so much less exposing than hurt after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But at least you can say it now. You, Eve Polastri, feel hurt when she gives you the cold shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You still cringe despite yourself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ok, it's still mortifying but you can name the feeling now at least. You’re a work in progress. Who isn't?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You look at the lace in your hands again, this is meant to act as a bra right? You don’t need a bra under this? God this is ridiculous. How did you ever settle on this as your plan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stupid question, you know how. It was panic. There you go, another emotion identified, you’re on a roll. Time was running out, she was shutting down at any attempt to engage outside of work so you drew the only logical conclusion; you’d just have to use the job to get her to engage. It’s hardly the first time that one of you has done that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So maybe there was a tip off about The Twelve using a charity to launder money. Who’s to say really. All you know is that it sounds like it could be true. So that’s what you told her. Possible members of the twelve all in the ballroom of some fancy hotel for a night of fundraising all amongst the backdrop of dinner and dancing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It would be two of you doing some very professional surveillance, and if the evening happened to have the trappings of the sort of date she seemed to want then that was a coincidence outside of your control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You stare at yourself in the mirror. Behind you is a ridiculously sized bouquet of flowers that you ordered a week ago and was delivered this morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jesus fucking Christ. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You are ridiculous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why would you need this many flowers for surveillance? Why would you need any flowers for surveillance? Why did you buy these?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh god. You know the answer. You take a breath— You wanted to make her feel special. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gross.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s that good old mortification again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You turn to find her in the doorway and— you must do a cartoonish double take because she can’t hide her amusement at whatever reaction your face has betrayed you with. You can imagine how ridiculous you must look because she looks— the dress is beautiful of course but what draws your eye is the long side slit revealing an almost obscene amount of leg. The same leg that she has pressed between yours and you swallow at the memory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve?” She says again. “The car is here. How long should I tell them?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You drag your mind away from her legs long enough to answer that you’d be ready in fifteen minutes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks doubtful, and turns to go, which is when you first realise that the dress is backless. Jesus. Your hands twitch at the thought of running the length of her spine, no bra strap in the way this time. Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns back to you abruptly, this view is not any easier; hair, eyes, mouth, tits, you could spend decades staring at any of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nice flowers.” She says mildly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck those fucking flowers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re from my mother.” Nice recovery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicker between you and the flowers again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your mother knows Carolyn?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fucks sake. This is Carolyn’s office you fucking idiot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” You pause,  “They go to the same chess club.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It sounds almost like it could be true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses for a moment, her face devoid of any real expression before she shrugs lightly in acceptance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be in the lobby whenever you’re ready.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sweeps from the room and you congratulate yourself on your quick thinking. Either that or she really has been over stating the whole spy skills thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever. It doesn’t matter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’ve got fifteen minutes to work out this bodysuit, put on the actual suit you’ve bought for tonight and meet her in the lobby.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Practicality of the lace in your hands aside. This is the part of the plan you are least worried about, because if you’re going to lean in to the mortification at least you can do it whilst looking hot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>——//——-</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The lace bodysuit has to be stepped into which may produce some logistical challenges later in the evening when you need the bathroom but her reaction when she first catches a glimpse of it beneath your jacket is totally worth any future logistical concerns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It happens by accident. You reach to pull a door open for her, the stretch pulls the jacket open and her eyes drop and widen. For a moment she just stands and looks down at you, and you imagine this is the same amusement she felt earlier at your loss of higher brain function in the face of so much of her skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vil?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicker up to yours as she flushes, embarrassed at being caught maybe, whatever the reason, you’re charmed all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look— you look very beautiful tonight.” She tells you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she walks through the door without saying another word about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels good, seeing her like this. Knowing that she can only pretend to a point. God knows she must have seen naked desire on your face enough times lately so it’s nice to see it on her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You wonder if you should feel bad, whether using her attraction to draw her out of herself when she is clearly trying to maintain distance is wrong. In the end you doubt it matters, you are who you are, and that includes the more manipulative parts. You’re going to use every weapon at your disposal tonight to make her see just how serious you are, and fix what you broke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The town car waits outside the office and you climb in the back seat next to her. She’s tense, you can tell. Is that new? Being so attuned to her moods? Did you feel that before Rome? You can’t remember. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tension is subtle, it’s the way she holds her neck and shoulders, too still to be natural. Her hand rests on her thigh, you're struck by the desire to link your fingers and bring your clasped hands to rest together in your lap. You don’t think she’d appreciate it right now so you hold back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You want to do something though, you wanted tonight to be fun after all. Mortifying, sure, but fun too. You think back to your anxiety over the hotel room with only one bed. You mind raced with all the terrible scenarios of where you might have snapped and accidentally fucked the woman who dealt with a previous rejection by shooting you in the back, still so unwilling back then to think that maybe she was something else too. She had sensed your anxiety, of course, and tried to break the tension with a game. Even at the time you thought it was sweet of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You ever think what you’d do if we were captured and trapped like this in a moving car?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns to look at you with a cocked eyebrow, an acknowledgment of your effort perhaps. You shrug a shoulder in response and she smiles slightly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kill the driver with my shoe, then you climb in front and take the wheel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The driver's eyes meet yours in the mirror.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t mean that.” You tell him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do actually.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The driver says nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your shoe?” You ask under your breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins and draws her leg up through the side slit in the dress. Presumably you’re meant to focus on the impossibly spindle-like point of her heel but all you can see is leg.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You huff a laugh and she turns slightly to look out the window. Her shoulders are set a little more naturally now she’s more relaxed. You smother a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Its this sort of thing that has pushed you to actually think theres more here than simply sex and excitement. Being able to make her feel less anxious with a stupid familiar game feels good, it feels like proof that you can be something good for her in a way you didnt think was possible at the start of all this. Just like her frank appreciation for your outfit earlier, it provides another little boost that maybe you can turn all this around. You can convince her to stay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s looking out the window still, strangely quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look beautiful tonight too.” You should have said it earlier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns to you slightly and smiles in a way that seems almost shy. It's a strange expression to see on her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lets have fun tonight, ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fun surveillance?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Yes, right. The only reason you convinced her to come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Surveillance can be fun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She allows another small smile in acknowledgment, but you see the tension set in her shoulders again. You can't stop the movement of your hand this time, you reach across and let your fingers twine around hers in the way you wanted to earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes settle on the hands interlocked and resting in her lap before settling on your face warily. You imagine that before your too rough treatment of her over Bill she might have lifted your hands to her lips and pressed a gentle kiss there, now though she just looks unsure of what she's meant to do with this gesture.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a fake date right? So let's have fun with it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's the wrong thing to say, you know it instantly. There's a tightening around her mouth, barely there but you saw it all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure, Eve.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns to look out the window, another clear gesture of dismissal but she allows your hand to remain wrapped around hers. One step forward, two steps back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---//-----</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The ballroom at the hotel is more dated than you imagined it would be. Maybe you should have just told her the twelve were using the dance hall from the last time? No. That would require a suspension of disbelief that is a little much even for you to expect. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s shovelling food into her mouth again. It's another thing you like about her, the way this messy display lacks artifice of any kind. You wonder whether she’s actively cultivated it to make whoever her audience happen to be think she’s let her guard down. Or maybe she doesn’t think about it at all. You like it either way, another thing about it you’re hungry to understand. You want to ask but aren't sure how to without making it seem like an accusation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s become one of the most frustrating parts of this strange new dynamic between you. She wants to know and see all of your darkness, but is so damn fragile when you carelessly turn it on her. It’s different to having to hide yourself from Niko, but it feels like hiding all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t like it?” She asks, gesturing with her fork to your still full plate. “I thought you said you were good at ordering.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, I was just thinking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s instantly on guard. This is so fucking exhausting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I— I feel like I didn’t explain myself properly about something—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—it’s fine.” She interrupts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I just— I just need to say this. Ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t respond and looks away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You press on regardless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You killed Bill.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something ticks in her jaw and you have a stupid impulse to soothe it with your fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t. Because of course you don’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You killed him, I don’t even know why really. But— you did. It’s part of you, and I guess part of me now. It can’t go away, I can’t really forgive you—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“— you’ve said all this. I’m a monster. You don’t forgive me, blah blah. We’re here for work right? So who are we meant to be watching?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her gaze settles on the crowd and you feel irritation bubble up and being so casually dismissed for what feels like the millionth time this evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop. Just, I’m trying to tell you something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lets her gaze flick back to you but the warmth you’ve let yourself become used to has gone, replaced by something cold and mocking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look at me like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She widens her eyes and shrugs as if you’re making an issue of something that doesn’t exist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop it. You know what I mean. I’m trying to tell you that I can’t forgive you, but I can accept that it happened and still—“ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. This is the moment, if you’re going to say the words it ought to be now. They stick in your throat as you look into her face, still schooled with mocking disinterest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I still— feel something for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a fucking cop out and you know it. It’s enough to flick a switch in her though, and maybe it’s your imagination but you think that maybe you saw her eyes go glassy for a moment before it was blinked away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She puts down her fork and tries a small smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don't need to say that. I did it. I'm sorry I hurt you. But it’s like you said before, we aren’t good for each other. Not like that, and— “ she takes a breath, “— I’m not upset with you about it anymore. So let’s eat dinner, watch the crowd and go. It’s ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your stomach knots at her words, not unkind but hard all the same. You turn away to stare at the crowd dancing in the centre of the room. Her hand reaches across the table to settle over yours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be upset either ok? Come on, we’re here for work, yes? Who should we be watching?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Work, right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You swallow away a feeling in your throat. Hurt, sad, disappointed. All of those. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is the worst. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least Niko had the good grace to inspire only mild irritation. But that was the problem. You didn’t feel anything. Wait. That’s not fair. You loved him, you did. But the love you felt with him was mild, easy, and ultimately— dull, but particularly when compared to the hugely complicated mess of emotion that she pulls from you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘I feel things when I’m with you’? Well right back at you Baby.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You could take the out she’s offered you, pick some overweight bore from the crowd, watch him for an hour or two and spare yourself the embarrassment of falling further into the rabbit hole you’ve dug for yourself tonight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That would be easier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve? Who should I be watching, because—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“— you want to dance?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too late to turn back now apparently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—-//-/—</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The second time you dance with her is much different. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You know now how your body fits against hers, how her hand naturally gravitates into your curls and yours to the skin of her elegantly exposed back. It feels familiar, that’s what she’s become to you over the months since the bridge, familiar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m leaving, you know.” She says it close to your ear so you can hear it above the din. You know,  of course you do, but hearing it puts the sinking feeling back in your chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Carolyn told me.” Your voice sounds weird.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She murmurs an acknowledgment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought she might have done.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nice of you to bother telling me yourself”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your voice is sharper than you intended, so often the case with her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs a sigh into your ear, the skin at your neck tingles and your fingers dig slightly into the skin at the small of her back. How low cut is the back of this dress? Because Jesus—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hadn’t decided whether I would before tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re an asshole.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She murmurs a sound that feels so much like fondness you could cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls back slightly and presses her lips to your cheek, before resting the side of her head against yours. She doesn’t respond and you’re left for the first time feeling like you can’t turn this around. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did you blow it earlier when you dipped out of a more defined declaration earlier? You debate telling her now but can’t put the words together in a way that really does justice to the awful cloying feeling in your chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When you do say it you need to try to remember to pick better adjectives.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I stay, we just keep going round in this circle. You don’t want that, you told me at the bridge and I should have listened.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You want to respond, to explain that your instinct is to push away what you want when it’s difficult and messy, when it’s something you can’t control. But the words don’t come. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s ok.” She reassures you softly, it’s fucking infuriating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stops moving in your arms and you vaguely register that the music has stopped. She moves as if to step back but you hold her firmly, only allowing her to pull back enough so your hand can pull her face down to yours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s still at first and just lets you kiss her. It pisses you off. Why should she get to be so unmoved? You refuse to let her be so passive so let your hand slide to her waist and press your thumb into the skin where you know the scar sits. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hips jolt into yours but there’s no time to enjoy the victory before she’s kissing you back hungrily. A hand in your hair and one slipped inside your jacket. When her palm splays against the lace covering your skin she makes a noise that you would rather die than never hear again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It must sound loud to her ears too because she pulls away abruptly, eyes darting from your face to your tits then your hair and back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she turns and stalks back to the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You take a steadying breath before weaving back through the other couples preparing for the next dance. As you approach you see her down what remains of her glass of champagne. There’s a lot of satisfaction to be had knowing that she’s not as aloof as she pretends.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You approach where she’s standing at the table and she turns to face you, clearly furious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that to change my mind. I know you want to fuck me, it doesn’t change anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—forget it. Do we even know who we should be watching?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You huff out a breath and turn to pretend to search the crowd. That was a fucking stupid thing to have done. Obviously. This whole ridiculous thing was about showing her that this is more than sex and games so naturally you would leap to use sex to one up her at the first opportunity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She just pissed you off being so calm about this all coming to an end when inside you are screaming. You couldn’t stand the imbalance. You couldn’t stand to let her be the one less affected, and it’s hard to see things with her outside of a prism of winning and losing. Even worse is that a part of you still feels a bit like the one who cares more is automatically the loser.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that’s what tonight is for, to put your cards on the table and see if your weird version of love is enough to make her stay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One thing you are sure of is that if you are going to do this, it won’t be with an audience.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t working.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns to you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want to go through some coats?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—///—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a coat check room just off the mezzanine floor and you trail after her as you go in search of it. The door is locked but she shakes out her hair to reveal pins which she proceeds to use to open it. Your chest swells with affection for this woman who hides lock picks in her up do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She must catch a dopey look on your face when she turns to face you again, a trace of some softness crosses what is otherwise a hard expression. It focuses your mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room smells like a department store, too many competing perfumes to smell anything other than cloying. She shuts the door behind you and gestures down one side of the room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Meet you in the middle?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns and starts going through pockets, and you turn to do the same. In hindsight this could be a fairly big disaster. Oh god, you’d have to call Carolyn to step in should the two of you be found seemingly stealing from hotel guests. Explaining that you had made up a fake operation to get Vil to agree to go on a date with you is so unimaginably excruciating that you don’t even try to contemplate it fully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’re here now, no audience, no excuses. You move to the next coat and consider what to actually say now you’re here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sure. But what else? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What is the more you want exactly? It’s what you’ve always wanted, to stop having to pretend that the shittier parts of you don’t exist. You want her to know that you can be thoughtless and selfish and manipulative and to still want you anyway. You want to let her see you, warts and all, and to love you. Just like you see her darkness, you feel her cruelty everyday in the ache in your shoulder, and you love her just the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unease floods your stomach for a moment, it’s not a great sales pitch admittedly; </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m a dick, love me for who I am please?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then again, hers isn’t much better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You take a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vil?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you— can you come here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you find something?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Er, no? Just come here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pads up the side of the central rack of coats and you watch her head bob along the top above the top rail..</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she’s in front of you and it’s now or never.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You killed my best friend.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The carefully blank face that she has been hiding behind slips to reveal real anger for the first time in a long time. Good, let her be angry, you aren't afraid of her anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve done this already and— “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.” You interrupt her and she only looks more furious. “Listen to me, you killed my best friend and I get to feel something about that. I should also be able to tell you how I feel about it. We should have talked about it sooner, and we should have done it when I wasn’t doped up on a load of chemicals. So are you going to listen?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has the good grace to look mildly chagrined in the face of your anger, she shrugs a sulky shoulder but says nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You killed him, and you killed a lot of people. I can’t forgive you for that, I don’t think you should expect me to. But— “ You take a breath. “I love you. I know all that shit about you and I love you. Ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks taken aback for a beat before she opens her mouth to respond but you don’t let her, if you don’t get this out now you don't know if you ever will.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Earlier, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, I just want to make you— listen or acknowledge me or—  I don't know. But it was a shitty thing to do. But I’m like that sometimes I know that—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pause, frustrated with yourself that you can't get the words to come out right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What you said earlier about going round in a loop? I don't want that either. So I do want you to stay and I want to try to make something work. But if I can accept all that stuff about you then I need you to accept that I’m not always nice and—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorts an interruption.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“ —and I won’t always be careful with your feelings. I don’t want to hurt you anymore but I can’t promise that I won’t. So I want you to stay and I’ll accept what's happened in the past, but I need you to accept—”  You remember the error from earlier in the night, “— I want you to love the shit parts of me too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The mortification doesn't come. Huh. It also feels less like losing that you thought it would.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She blinks at you and her face shifts but not enough to see whether your words have had the intended effect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you’re saying; I kill people and you’re an asshole? But that's ok because we both know it and lo—  like each other anyway?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. You had tried to make it seem a little less bleak but it's not a million miles away from what you meant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Er, yeah. Pretty much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods but says nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It's not a great pitch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” You acknowledge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you love me?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The corner of her mouth twitches.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry that killing him hurt you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You notice the deliberate phrasing, it grates that she can't just be sorry that she did it. But if you want honesty then you need to accept ugly truths right along with easy ones. You need to respect that she is trying to give you what you want even if she knows you won’t like it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You both stand there in silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Should I—  Do you want me to kiss you now?” She sounds hesitant, and you remember how young she really is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to stay?” You ask seriously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn't say anything for a moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your throat gets tight and you let yourself consider that this may well not be enough. That maybe she’s tired of your roughness and— </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let out a breath you weren't deliberately holding. She smiles shyly and tucks some hair behind her ear, maybe at a loss as to what to do with her hands suddenly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of you say anything for a moment. Unsure of what’s allowed, unsure what has actually been settled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So we’re really going to try this then?” You ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t answer for a moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve done a lot of— stuff” She says vaguely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You nod. “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t respond.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve done a lot to hurt you.” You acknowledge in return.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods in response.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that ok?” You ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes a breath before answering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I think so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“OK.”  Relief courses through you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come here.” You tell her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cocks a suddenly amused eyebrow at this show of confidence but you can see her hesitance beneath the surface. How strange to think that people can’t read this woman.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She steps closer and you raise a hand to her cheek to run your fingertip across the slightly flushed skin. She turns her head and kisses at your fingers before leaning forward to press her mouth to yours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s less careful than you’ve known her to be. The realisation that she might have been holding back all this time causes a jolt right the way through you and you pull her closer. Her hand in your hair slips down the nape of your neck and her fingers begin to play with the lace of the bodysuit, you hear the noise again, the one she made before and you are dimly aware of being pushed back into a wall padded by coats. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls back from the kiss slightly and lets her hand move round from the nape of your neck to the top of your chest. Her breath comes a little faster and her hair is a mess from your greedy hands, you hadn't even realised you’d done that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I allowed to— ?” She asks quietly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You kiss the edge of her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been turning me down for weeks now, are you really asking me that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins and allows a small shrug of her shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is very pretty.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her fingers stroke down the lace at the side of your breast and your fingers tighten their hold of the fabric of her dress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t been able to stop looking at you all night.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You allow yourself a grin. “I noticed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She playfully pinches the skin at your side in response. “Even when you were being an asshole.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lean toward her and press kisses along the length of her neck, delighting how her hands grip tighter where they have moved down to rest at your waist.  When you reach her ear you whisper into the delicate shell, “I bought it for you, I wanted you to look.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes a noise in the back of her throat and then she’s kissing you again. Her obvious delight at your admission makes you feel less exposed and you want to tell her more. Tell her every dirty little detail that occupies your thoughts late at night alone in your bed. You’d tell her anything for her to keep touching you like this, to keep her making those breathy little sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hands are more sure now, and this is more what you expected when you thought about sex with her. The confident, practiced ease of her thumb rolling across your nipple whilst her palm squeezes affects you more than you imagined and you press forward into the pressure. She pulls back from the kiss to look at her hand touching you before her eyes flicker to yours and she grins, oh so pleased with herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rush of affection almost outweighs the flash of irritation that her beautiful smug smile brings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why should she get to win at this? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s your same bad impulse from earlier, but in this context maybe it isn’t so bad. That’s the point though isn’t it, there are a lot of shitty things about both of you but in the right context, to the right person, maybe those things aren’t so bad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She kisses you again, nips lightly at your lower lip, your hips arch toward her and she presses right back. It feels so impossibly good that you almost forget what you set out to do. To show her that you can be just as good at this as her, to affect her just as deeply as she does you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let your hand drift to her tits. Your mind goes blank for a moment before it’s not enough, the material of her dress too thick to satisfy your thirst for skin.  You make a frustrated noise you barely recognise and she laughs lightly close to your ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“— want to touch you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It comes out lower than normal and not as articulate as you’d like but it does the job and she strangles out a keening sound in your ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hate this dress.” You tell her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You bite her earlobe and she makes the sound again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure seems like you do.” Her tone is gentle but teasing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s too thick, I can’t feel you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You hear what might be a laugh before she wraps long fingers around your wrist and drags your hand across her stomach, over the scar and down to the high cut in the side of her dress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your fingers brush the bare skin of her thigh and you swallow. When you meet her eyes they are amused, challenging and full of what you think might be happiness. She raises an eyebrow in invitation, provocation, whatever, it's the prompt that you need.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your fingers slide higher until you meet lace, further still until you can feel her hot and wet through silk, then beneath the silk where it's just her, soft against your fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ— you’re—” It comes out strangled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs again, how annoying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your fingers press and the laughter dies, replaced by a shuddering sigh, and you have to press your own legs together at the sound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's far enough away from how you imagined this to feel to be daunting but as you start to move your fingers, her hands grip your waist harder and she presses a kiss to your mouth. So much less refined than she had been earlier and you preen with satisfaction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pull back slightly, “This ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods before reaching to slightly reposition your hand, dragging it through wet skin, gathering it on your dedicated fingers before pressing them back against the flesh where you started, circling until her hips jerk in response. She drops your wrist to resume touching your tits and she gasps out that small sound again, or maybe that was you this time. Whatever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s starting to move against your fingers and you’re struck again by the feeling that this isn't enough. You want her naked, spread out beneath you, you want time to look and touch and taste— </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> — all things that probably arent suited to standing up in a coat check room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. This doesn't feel right suddenly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your fingers slow and she lifts her head from where it had been resting on your shoulder, a questioning look on her face, maybe a flash of insecurity, and your gut twists at having been the one to put it there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is this ok?” You ask again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, more. Keep going” She says it impatiently and moves against your fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I meant— you wanted it to be special— candles and— flowers — you know—” You let the sentence hang.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her earlier impatience fades and she looks so impossibly touched you want to go back and kill everyone she loved before that gave her such painfully low expectations of what being loved should feel like. You gloss over the role you may have played in that and pledge yourself to putting it right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You love me, yes?” She’s hesitant still, despite all you’ve said, despite where your fingers are currently pressed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well— yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then it's special.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You kiss her, gentle and chaste because, yeah, it is special. Ok, so you’re fucking her standing up in a coat check room, but its her and its taken so long to get here that its so disgustingly sentimental and special to you that your chest aches with the thought that you ever tried to keep it in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You start to touch her again, this time with the sole intention of making her come. Kissing her neck, a thumb pressing against the side of her throat slightly harder than you have done with anyone before and her hips jerk out of rhythm again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she comes her fingers clench roughly into your skin, her body shudders against you and she gasps prettily in your ear. It is not at all the theatrics of how you thought it would be, and it's so much sweeter for it. She stands still, steadying her breathing whilst leaning against you before turning to kiss the skin below your ear messily. When she says the words they are quiet and still unsure, so you turn to kiss her and say them back in a way that you hope shows how certain you are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You draw your hand away from her and she catches your wrist before you can wipe them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that, it’ll show against the black of the silk until you dry clean them. Trust me”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh gross, are you really telling me about other women you’ve fucked right after we just did that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins and shrugs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have a lot of wisdom to impart.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You snort, and consider how best to tip the balance back in your favour.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You settle on lifting your fingers to your mouth to clean away the traces of her from your hands, staring at her the entire time. Her gaze is intense and fixed to your mouth. When she meets your eyes again you must look as smug as she did earlier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes. “Fine. You have— “ She waves a hand at you vaguely, “— wisdom too, even if it is your first time. Point taken.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smoothes out her dress before reaching up presumably in an attempt to do something about her hair which has lost any of her careful styling from the start of the evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me take you home.” You sound confident, and sure. You feel it too. It’s nice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t want to keep looking through the coats?” She asks in a helpful tone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fucking fake date.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh erm— there's probably nothing here. People bring their wallets with them right? And—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>The corner of her mouth twitches and you pause briefly— </span><em><span>oh</span></em><span>.</span> <span>Oh.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What an asshole.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You knew the whole time!” You shove her shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs, it's a light happy sound and—you don't hate it even if it's at your expense.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not the whole time.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh shut up. When?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She bites her bottom lip to hold in a grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don't be a dick, tell me”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs a bit and shrugs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eve— you printed sections of the briefing notes for the operation from wikipedia and didn't take the links out, then with the flowers—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You skip over the stupid flowers, still not ready to revisit that ridiculous piece of decision making.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You read the briefing?” You’re weirdly touched by the thought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her smile turns shy and she reaches for your hand, threading your fingers together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I always read them. I just—  I like— you’re cute when you get all grumpy when you think I haven’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A huffed out laugh escapes you but you let her keep hold of your hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a real dick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why did you come tonight?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shrugs again and looks away before answering. “I wanted you to convince me to stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You reach out and touch her face, gently encouraging her to look at you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ll stay?” You ask</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods, and fiddles with the ends of her hair in what appears to be a nervous gesture you hadn’t noticed before..</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pull on her hand and lead her out of the coat check room, pausing near the doors to the ballroom again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We could— we could go back to the date if you wanted?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take me home. They’ll be other dates.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lean in to kiss her again and she smiles into it. She pulls on your hand and leads you toward the doors in the lobby. She looks happy in a way that you haven’t really ever seen on her before. As she drags you through the circular doors she turns back with a grin. You’re struck with the thought that she can't possibly be the one to love you more, to feel more than this frankly awful ache in your chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You thought that maybe it would feel like losing to be the one blinked first, the one who cared more, the one that loved more deeply, and maybe if this falls apart one day it will feel like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But right now being led out into the night by this terrible perfect woman, you think you might, for the first time, be quite content to lose.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A honourable mention to Lightfighter who has been up at all hours reading this and for being sickeningly upbeat and encouraging throughout even when I wanted to wallow in hating writing. You are the worst, and I mean that in the best way.</p><p>And at Lightfighter’s request - For anyone who would like to - here is the lace body suit I wrote 7k words about - </p><p>https://www.net-a-porter.com/en-gb/shop/product/saint-laurent/velvet-and-leavers-lace-trimmed-stretch-tulle-halterneck-bodysuit/1283422</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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